


There is a switch inside me, or is there

by awoof



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awoof/pseuds/awoof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prelude to Lestrade's appearance at Dartmoor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a switch inside me, or is there

To say he is a workaholic driven by a broken marriage is inappropriate. An exaggeration, on the very least. There is nothing wrong, by a middle-aged man’s standard, about travelling to Sussex for a long weekend and reading newspaper with a cup of traditional British tea at hand as what he calls a holiday.

Checking his email, he unconsciously starts to tap his finger on the window sill of the train back to London, which, after a while, garners the curious on-look from the young woman sitting next to him.

He knows that look, seemingly innocent, docile, barely veiling the promiscuous sexual creature beneath. So he offers an apologetic smile before turning away and looking at the view outside the window instead.

It is a cleansing view. Makes him feel less of a dirty old man.

So this is what the rest of his life will be like. Dodging flirtations, sleeping alone, catching murderers, and occasionally calling Sherlock for help.

Sometimes, a very, very selfish and jealous part of him would wish that he were John. He hates this part of himself. Loathes it. Yet, every time Sherlock calls him by the wrong name or humiliates him, it hurts. It doesn’t matter that Sherlock basically does this to everyone except John, it doesn’t matter that he has long grown accustomed to Sherlock’s ignorance of feelings. There is this switch inside him that cannot be turned off, and the divorce just makes things even worse.

If only he could detach himself from all this and live his boring life like just another single middle-aged man. An impossible wish, he knows, as he would never be able to stop helping that giant git and wishing in dire optimism that things could change, that Sherlock could change.

“Hi,” the young woman next to him says shyly.

“Hi, um, I am sorry, but…” Greg says, struggling to maneuver between politeness and disinterest, but the woman cuts him off.

“I have a note for you,” the woman blushes, hands him a letter, and leaves the seat.

Through the confusion (does she just carry a love letter with her all the time?), he opens the letter and immediately recognizes the familiar handwriting of Mycroft.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs under his breath, reads through the letter, and quickly boards the train to Dartmoor at the next station.


End file.
